


someday we'll linger in the sun

by skeleton_narration



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentioned Peter Lukas, Not Beta Read, post 159
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:01:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21723400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_narration/pseuds/skeleton_narration
Summary: Peter Lukas was dead.Martin knew this as well as he knew the freckles on his face.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 15
Kudos: 87





	someday we'll linger in the sun

Peter Lukas was dead. 

Martin knew this as well as he knew the freckles on his face. He felt it. Something inside of him that had been burning with coldness so severe that it would tear his skin off seemed to suddenly be gone, melted away. The Lonely suddenly felt a lot more empty. 

He hadn’t even realized that Peter had a presence there until he was gone.

And John had found him. John’s hands were on his face and Martin and realized with a start that it was the first purposeful touch that John had ever initiated. Martin had grabbed him and held him close. John had kissed him, an impulse that had left Martin feeling warmer than he had in days, months, years even. They had left the Lonely hand in hand, a myth that didn’t end in one of them disappearing.

They didn’t talk about Peter Lukas dying for a while. Getting to someplace safe, getting to Scotland was a lot more important than talking about Peter Lukas.

Besides, Martin knew that he was dead, logically, at least. 

A large part of him couldn’t help but be worried that Peter was right there. That a stranger’s face on the train was him, that he would appear in the empty bathroom at the station, in the aisle of a grocery store.

“Are you alright?” John had looked like he wanted to ask Martin something for a while, so he wasn’t surprised by the question. 

Martin hummed, “You killed Peter, didn’t you?” He asked, running his fingers over a jumper that he had messily stashed into his bag. It was wrinkled, but nothing that would kill him. He didn’t think his presentation mattered all that much when they were on the run, anyway.

John was silent for a second and Martin glanced over. He made the sound he always did when he struggled to talk to another person about feelings, or really in general. Martin shouldn’t have found it endearing. 

“I… did,” John said, “I know— I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Martin blinked at him, raising his eyebrows with the question.

“Murder isn’t exactly something that’s easily forgiven,” John picked at the fingernail on his thumb.

Martin went silent at that. “No, I guess not, but it was necessary. I don’t think you should feel guilty about it,” Martin didn’t feel any guilt about it, but he hadn’t been the one with the gun in his hands. “Peter was… he was someone who didn’t seem like he’ll be mad at his murderer.” He let out a laugh, but there was no humor in it. 

John chuckled, just as empty, “I think the way I did it might have pissed him off.”

“Good.” And Martin reached for his hand and John reached back. They sat on the dusty floor of the room in Daisy’s safehouse in silence.

  
John was watching him. He was always aware of whenever John looked at him, after the Lonely it only seemed to intensify. It was so rare that people looked at him back then and whenever John did it always sent Martin burning. 

Martin looked back at him, glancing up at the cutting board where he had been trying to start dinner. “Is something wrong?”

His mouth pressed in a thin line. “Are you okay?” He asked it seemed less forced than the times before. John was getting better about talking about feelings, talking in general. Martin had guessed that he was, too. 

“I’m fine?” Martin looked at him oddly.

“It’s just,” John sighed, “You keep looking over your shoulder, tensing every time the wind picks up.” The wind outside was whistling, a storm was coming and Martin had been focusing all of his attention on concern for leaks rather than how the wind sounded. 

“I’m just worried about the storm, is all,” Martin brushed his concerns away, going back to cutting thin slices of chicken. 

He had gotten it from the local shop. The shopkeep had noticed him hovering and had asked him if he needed help. Martin had startled, having forgotten that others were seeing him now, that he was an actual presence to be noticed. Sometimes, he felt himself slipping back into the distance, fading again.

He felt lucky that he hadn’t had to pluck the chicken himself, he didn’t think that he could stomach it.

“Martin.”

There was a tinge of impatientness to John’s tone, but Martin knew him well enough to know that it was poorly concealed worry. 

“What, John?” He didn’t look up from the cutting board this time. His hands were shaking, he realized.

John’s hand, warm and scarred, gently wrapped around the wrist of his left hand, the one holding the knife. “He’s gone,” John’s voice was soft and gentle. “He’s gone, Martin.”

Martin set the knife down and pressed his arm into his eye (his right hand still had raw chicken on it). “I know,” he said, trying to ignore the thickness of his own voice. “I know,” he said again, “But sometimes it doesn’t feel like it, you know?” He turned to John. John’s face was soft and full of understanding and Martin knew that John really did know.

“I keep thinking that he’s going to be here. That he’ll find us and then drag me back and god, John, sometimes I still think I’m like that. That I’m in there. Nearly gave the shop keeper a heart attack with how startled I was when she asked if I was alright,” Martin placed his hand back down, tears rolling down his cheeks. He didn’t make a move to clean them off because he still had half a mind.

John was silent for a second. Instead of saying something he just gripped Martin’s wrists again and led him to sink, helping him turn on the water. Martin laughed through the tears, washing his hands and muttering a small thanks.

“Please don’t startle her again, she already seems frail,” John told him in the dry tone that Martin was sure by now meant he was joking. Martin let out a snort as he dried his hands off and John outstretched his. Martin accepted them, the feeling of John’s warmth and skin against his own grounding him. 

John let out a sigh, “Look, Martin. I can’t promise you that you’ll stop feeling like this. That we’ll both wake up tomorrow without the Lonely still lingering, but I can tell you that Peter Lukas is dead. He is dead and he is never coming back. He can never touch you or hurt you again.”

Martin gripped one of John’s hands, bringing it to his face. John cupped his cheek, his thumb rubbing small circles automatically. Martin leaned into it, “I know, John.” He said, “I know.”

John gave him a smile, a real one, “I’ll finish up dinner. Sit down and relax.” 

“Thank you,” Martin murmured, turning his face and kissing John’s palm. A splotchy blush filled John’s cheeks and Martin let himself slip away from the touch, instead of sitting at the small table that dissected the kitchen from the dining room. 

John’s eyes were unbearably soft when he looked at him. “Of course, and Martin?”

“Hm?”

“I will always see you.”

**Author's Note:**

> don't yell at me for using john instead of jon
> 
> was talking to some friends and one mentioned john having to reassure martin that peter was gone and this was born  
> title taken from the song by the same name by gaelynn lea
> 
> skeleton-narration.tumblr.com


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